"Well, we will let you believe in your two rather contending imaginations of the princess until you see her," said Lady Diana; " only I advise you to cultivate the Lady Macbeth theory;" and again she laughed.

So I was all wrong. The princess was probably a large, red-haired blonde, a type I hated. I remembered she was from the north of Italy-yes, undoubtedly she was the Flora of Titian, and all that sort of thing. Well, I did not want to see her.

But these golden days were numbered. Lady Estcourt got ill. She thought there was malaria at the Villa Lucca. The odor of the Olia fragrans, which has been wafted to this lower sphere directly from the gates of paradise, gave her the headache. When Lady Estcourt got headaches she grew cross. Alfred Courtnay was called away by business, toward Milan, I believe. Lady Diana lost her interest in water-colors. Alas! color seemed to be losing its interest in her, for her lovely cheek grew pale, and I thought her blue eyes were less brilliant. Yet she was sweeter and more lovable every day; and, when she came to bid me good-by, and to say that the lessons were at an end, tears stood in those great, pure, honest eyes.

I kissed the white hand she held out to me. I kissed it, perhaps, two or three times.

"It has been an episode in my life which I shall never forget, Mr. Thornton,” said she, kindly.

"It has been the romance of my life, Lady Diana," said I, firmly; for it was pleasant to let her know, now that we were to part, probably forever, how entirely I had worshiped her.

The beautiful hand was withdrawn; the lofty, noble head gave me a salutation; the delicate, red lips gave me a parting smile; and, as suddenly as she had come into my life, Lady Diana Estcourt went out of it.

Yes, went out of it forever!

The Villa Lucca resumed its quiet, and I returned to my Correggio. The Madonna looked at me reproach fully. I had neglected her; and, as I tried to catch the subtile charm which Correggio has infused into all his women, I failed. I thought of a pair of great, blue eyes, of heavy, chestnut, wavy hair, of lilies and roses, and of that spirited turn of the head-in fact, I dreamed of Lady Diana, and she spoiled my work.

I went off and pulled on the lake. I even besought old Luigi, the steward, to let me prane his trees; I tried various minor industries known to artists, in order to recover my tone. Nature treated me kindly, and the long wil derness of garden offered me an unending opportunity for work. I was a very successful pruner, so Luigi thought, and I did good service to the plum-trees. I rose early, and worked late. There was a pain at my heart which I could not exterminate readily; and in my close room, where she had sat so recently painting by my side, it was unendurable.

I often asked myself why I did not leave the Villa Lucca; why not give up copying the Correggio until another summer; this

Why did I not go? Because I could not. I hugged my pain. I loved the remembrance that wounded me. I could not leave the room, the grounds, the scenes which still spoke to me of her.

One morning, after a sleepless night, I went out early to cut away at my plum-trees. The morning was glorious; the flowers were in their richest midsummer luxuriance. Old Luigi was not yet out. I was alone with the sunrise. Adam in his first morning walk in the Garden of Eden was not more alone than I. I thought of our great progenitor as I mounted my ladder to cut off a branch that was interfering with a fruit-laden vine.

"How lonely he must have been!" thought I; and, as I thought so, I looked down and saw what Adam saw-I saw a woman in a new Garden of Eden!

Yes, a beautiful young girl in a lilac frock stood looking at the morning-glories. She was so slight and delicate that, as she stood on tiptoe looking into the airy bells, she was scarcely less aërial than they. I thought of my friend Hamon's picture of Spring, or Summer-I forget which-of a young girl who stands on one morning-glory drinking dew out of another.

"Ah!" thought I, "my friend Luigi has a pretty daughter. He has kept her very much secluded, or perhaps she has been away from home."

I then remembered that late the evening before I had seen a boat stop at the little wharf and some two or three people disembark.

"Good-morning, my dear," said I to the young girl; for she was looking anxiously at my falling branch. "I will not allow this to fall near you; but perhaps you had better step away from this neighborhood for a moment?"

"Save the morning - glories!" said the girl, as she stepped away while I lowered the already falling bough.

"Yes," said I, gallantly, "if only that you have admired them;" and I then threw the bough over the trellis which she had just quitted, and descended myself.

"So you are my friend Luigi's little daughter, I suppose? And you came home last evening, did you? Well, you are out early

this morning!

She lifted her eyes to my face, and looked at me with an amused expression.

"Perhaps," said she, "I am always an early riser. Did Luigi-I mean my fathertell you to prune these trees?"

"Yes; he was doing it laboriously one day, and I came to help him-your father is getting old."

"Yes, and very indulgent," said the girl, laughing.

She was very pretty, there was no doubtso delicate, so slender, so young, with the soft, wavy, golden hair seldom seen except in very young children, and gray eyes which had a startled look. Her lilac-muslin dress was knotted round the waist with a ribbon, and her long, loose sleeves fell back from her white, slender arms, which had yet to reach their fullest beauty. She was exactly a creat

ure to meet in the early morning, while the dew was on the flowers-she was, at that hour, herself

"A bud with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."

"And you are the American artist who lives in the pavilion, I suppose, are you not?" said Luigi's daughter, after giving me a good look out of the startled eyes, which I noticed had lashes darker than her hair.

"Yes, my dear, I am he; and when your good mother brings me my breakfast this morning, won't you and she come and eat it with me? I feel, I assure you, very lonely since Lady Diana Estcourt and her mother left, and I think I shall go away soon myself." "Did you admire Lady Diana Estcourt?" said my garden-nymph.

"She is very beautiful, very superb, indeed," I said; "in fact, everybody, every thing that comes to the Villa Lucca seems to break out with an epidemic of beauty. I hear the princess is very handsome, only she never comes here. Have you ever seen her?"

"Who-I?" said she, rather absently, "Oh, yes! I have seen the princess!"

"Is she, then, so beautiful," said I, for my charming companion was silent, and I liked to hear her talk. She looked more like : Greuze every moment.

"Well, people differ about beauty. Id not find her very fine," said Luigi's daughter.

The young girl stooped to pick some flowers, and then, making me some excuse, gracefully flitted down an alley and disappeared.

When I went in to the pavilion to y breakfast, Luigi's wife was in a great flutter. I could not imagine what had happened to the good, motherly, calm, Italian peasant whe had attended to my few wants.

At this moment my pretty Grease, my Hamon, my Spring personified, stepped laughingly into the pavilion, accompanied by a boy of about six years, and a tall and very digui fied lady.

the

'Ah, Mr. Thornton, forgive me. I d not intend to mystify, still less to frighten you. Forget, I beg of you, that I am princess, a title that frightens everybody, and is a heavy one to wear. Call me here-it is my pleasure-Madame Louise, and only use the etiquette which always comes naturally to every well-bred man of the world when he talks to a lady. My friend here, Madame Sermoneta, will do me the justice to say that I am always frank, and mean what I say." "The princess is to be obeyed in whatever she may command," said the lady-in-waiting making a deep obeisance.

There were two alternatives open to me: one was to jump into the lake and sink or swim; the other was to make a bow and an apology, and blush it through. I chose the latter alternative. It was not my fault if a

princess chose to look like a gardener's daughter, in the simplicity of her dress, and to come out alone, at four in the morning, into her own garden, although I confess I felt very like a fool when I remembered my undue familiarity.

It never chanced to me to see the princess again alone - Madame Sermoneta was always with her.

This, however, put a slight restraint on the cordiality and sweetness of her manners and conversation. She was delightfully agreeable-full of talk on all subjects. She chatted about the politics of Europe, as another woman would have talked about the fashions. She knew about art, and books, and music, and was altogether the queerest mixture of courtly elegance and bizarre love of freedom, and almost Bohemianism, that I ever met. She was a European celebrity in this respect, as I afterward found out. She, too, had the great gift which Lady Diana had had-she could put a man at his ease at once. was no condescending affability-there was a sincere sympathy. I soon found that Alfred Courtnay was right-she was one of the most beautiful women in Europe. This appearance of extreme youth was but another charm; although she had really only reached the twenty-third year of her age. She took much interest in my copy of Correggio, and gave me an order for a copy of the "Madonna della Scodella," at Parma, to be done at my leisure. So we were on friendly terms at

once.

There

All this followed our first breakfast in the pavilion, through the month which succeeded Lady Diana's departure. Perhaps I owed something to the friendship which immediately sprang up between me and the young duke, the heir to so many possibilities. As he is a very great personage now, I besitate to remember that he was a bulletbeaded little boy, not at all like his beautiful mother, and quite full of the dispositions of a spoiled child; but he liked a male companion, a big playfellow, and I liked him. Twice in the course of our acquaintaince did I fish him out of the lake, thus altering, perhaps, the whole face of European politics. Twice did I deliver him from perilous situations on the roof of the pavilion, whither his Italian valet dared not follow him. He disported himself in my painting-room to his infinite satisfaction, and, like most spoiled children, obeyed me better than he did any of the people whom he was bound to obey.

Even the small suite whom the princess had brought with her took away from the privacy of my palace of indolence, and I shut myself up much with my work. Guests would come and go, of whom I knew nothing, and I only saw my hostess when she chose to summon me. She and Madame Sermoneta, and the little duke and myself, took some walks, sails, and rambles together, and she returned my invitation to breakfast by inviting me to dine. She was always the same pretty, little, young girl in her appearance and manner toward me, but toward her people there was an unmistakable change of manner. Even to Madame Sermoneta she was a princess.

seating Madame Sermoneta in an alcove, led the conversation toward Lady Diana.

"Lady Diana told me that you pictured me to yourself as Mary Queen of Scots, and perhaps as Lady Macbeth," said she, laughing.

"Yes," said I, "here is a sketch which I made of your probable highness;" and I showed her one of my careless sketches.

family, in which there is a title pending, but Diana-no, she is a queer girl; I think she never liked me very deeply;" and the false, beautiful, changeful eyes took on another cloud, such as I had seen sail over them before.

I had nothing to say; I was the merest stranger und waif in this society, with which accident had mixed me. Nor was I aston

Turning over the leaves of my book, she came on the first sketches I had made of the beautiful face of Courtnay.

"Alfred Courtnay!" said she, and her face was covered with the deepest, most intense blush.

"Yes," said I, "and here is the finished portrait. Lady Diana and I painted Courtnay at the same time; he said we wanted to save the expense of a model; Lady Diana, as was natural, regarding their relations, gave him a much better expression than I did. I was not fortunate in the expression, but what do you think of the portrait?"

I had busied myself turning the picture round from the wall, and when I again looked at the princess she was as pale as death.

"It is very good-very like him," said she, coldly; "but what do you mean by 'their relations?'"

"Only that they are betrothed, I suppose, from their manner, and from what Lady Estcourt told me."

Here, fortunately, the little duke managed to pull down one of my easels, and to make a great noise.

The princess roused Madame Sermoneta, and, taking her son by the hand, bade me "Good-morning," and retired.

I did not see her again for two days, during which time I reflected deeply on what I had observed. Courtnay's change of manner when he spoke of the princess had impressed me at the time, but was it possible that a man who pretended to love Diana Estcourt could love another woman? I could believe it of Courtnay more than any man I had ever seen, for there was a subtle falseness behind his curious eyes; I looked at my picture, yes! I had painted it there without knowing it.

I was thinking this over and summing up all I knew of him, and working away at the same time at my copy, when I again heard his sweet voice and English accent pronouncing my name. He came in, handsome as the morning, fresh, fascinating, and manly, disarming criticism.

After the usual salutations and the natural inquiries for Lady Diana, Courtnay said, in an off-hand manner:

"By-the-way, Thornton, my friend the princess says that you misunderstood the relations of Lady Diana and myself; you supposed us betrothed; it was nothing, I assure you, but a cousinly flirtation; Diana has forgotten me before this, and, indeed, I doubt if she ever thought much of me. Her mother did me the honor to desire an alliance, I

Once she came to my painting-room, and, believe, because I belong to a branch of her

that Courtnay and the princess were going through the same "Comedy of Errors" which I had seen played before.

Madame Sermoneta's brow looked very clouded as she stood about or sat with her tapestry far enough off to not hear their whispered talk, yet near enough to preserve the inviolable etiquette. The princess clung to Courtnay's arm with a far more delicate and womanly appeal than had the proud, tall, English girl, whose attitude had struck me, but there was the same adoration for the man in both their faces.

He was one of those magnetic people born to be loved by women, born to be spoiled by them, born to deceive and make many of them unhappy.

I must do him the justice to say that he seemed thoroughly in love with the princess. It would have been hard for any man not to have loved the gay little creature, who had a butterfly's love of freedom, and who always seemed, amid the restraints of rank, like a bird in a gilded cage. She was, too, as an individual, very admirable and fascinating, and there was something positively pathetic in her adoration of him. Once I saw her flit away from the shaded seat where they had been together for the whole morning, and bring him back a bunch of violets. He rewarded her with that look and smile which I had noticed as so radiant and expressive.

She put her hands over her own eyes. "Don't look at me that way," said she, "I cannot bear it; your eyes scorch me."

She was a woman of such ethereal presence, so delicate, so refined by nature, that she could show her love without losing one particle of her dignity and womanhood. There was about her, too, the courtly breeding, the elegance of a woman of the highest rank, the first element of which courtly breeding is simplicity. It seemed strange to me to be looking out into this enchanted garden, this "Forest of Ardennes," and to have seen two Rosalinds flit before me, both in love with one Orlando. Sometimes I shut my eyes and asked if I were not dreaming; there is something very intoxicating in this Italian air; it gets into the blood. There are so many legends floating in it-there are Paolo and Francesca di Rimini; there are all the sweet heroines of the Decameron ; " Lucrezia Borgia's golden hair floats through one's brain; Beatrice Cenci, Vittoria Colonna, deepen and darken the tragic sky. Where shall one begin or end with the romance of Italy. "All this is a fancy," I thought; "I have known no noble English lady, no princess, no handsome, false, wandering knight; it is an old tale I have been reading, and I shall awake to reality."

So I mused, but opened my eyes and looked out of the window.

As I did so I saw Courtnay and the princess in the immortal attitude of the "Cupid and Psyche," sealing their betrothal with a sacred kiss.

In an hour after this event the princess honored me with a visit, and told me she had decided to marry Mr. Courtnay. She deemed it due, perhaps, to her dignity, that I, who had necessarily seen much of their intimacy, should know of her determination.

There was no reason why she should not marry him, except the will of her royal brother-in-law, and that she was determined to brave. Brave it she did-to the wonder and scandal of all Europe. They took the little duke, my bullet-headed young friend, away from her, and educated him for his high position, but I fear she did not care much. She had not loved his father, and the maternal instinct was not much developed in this strange, beautiful, wild little princess.

I rolled up my canvas, kissed the hand of my hospitable and distinguished hostess. Oh! how differently from the hand I had kissed before!-but she was my queen!-and left the Villa Lucca.

I heard from a distance of the royal rage and of my princess's determination. I read of the marriage in Galignani, and I sent as my humble gift-my portrait of the favored bridegroom. It brought me an autograph letter of thanks, with a "likeness of a kingly crown" on the note-paper.

And then I thought-ah! had I ever ceased to think of Lady Diana Estcourt? I knew how she had loved this man, knew that such a woman would love but once. I did not dare to write to her; what should I

say if I did? My silent sympathy must float to her through the air, I could not speak it.

I heard that she and her mother had returned to England, both in ill-health. She in ill - health! that splendid physique — that noble and grand development? The wound must have been sudden and sharp, and aimed at a vital part, to have let out that vigorous well-being.

I was wandering around through Parma, Bologna, Ravenna, Padua, and other dear old Italian cities, for a year; my copies were completed. I was about to return to America, when I determined to go once again to the Lake of Como, and to see again the Villa Lucca. But at Caddennabia I heard that the Villa Lucca was let to a Russian princess, who did not allow strangers to intrude, so I went to the Villa Carlotta, which so much resembled it in position, and in the arrangements of the grounds, that I could almost rehabilitate old memories, and see again the fair shapes who had peopled for me the most romantic and poetical of garden solitudes.

As I was looking at the "Cupid and Psyche" of Canova, I noticed an English group, and recognized a lady whom I had met at Florence, a friend of the Estcourts. She shook me cordially by the hand, and gave me the latest news of an agreeable American and English circle in Florence. She was a great talker, so it was not immediately that I was able to ask for Lady Diana.

"Oh!" said she, "have you not heard? So sad, the prettiest girl in England! such an heiress-such a position! Lady Diana Estcourt is dead! our last letters brought us the news. Her mother thinks she was poisoned by the malaria somewhere here in Italy, at some villa or other. Well, these old Italian houses are unhealthful, no doubt; I would not like to pass a summer in one of them-would you, Mr. Thornton ? "

I got away from my garrulous friend, and walked off into the shaded alleys. I thought of the tall girl with the chestnut hair, and the proud, fine carriage of the head. I thought of the generous, cheerful, and brave heart.

And then I thought of the black eyes and the beautiful smile, and the faithless character, that had brought her her doom. A bitter feeling came over me, almost a blasphemous wish that he might suffer as she had done.

When I returned to my hotel a packet of letters, and a package from my banker, awaited me.

I opened them and found a letter from poor Lady Estcourt. Its black borders feebly indicated the broken heart and the gloom which had settled down on the poor mother.

"I send you a parcel which poor Diana directed to you just before she died," said

IT

(FROM THE FRENCH.)

The

was after the events of 1830. leading question of the day was to persuade Austria to accept the Revolution of July, and the change of dynasty. To conduct this difficult negotiation, the government had chosen Marshal Maison, a brave old soldier of the empire, but more used to the tactics of war than to those of diplomacy and politics. The marshal accepted reluctantly the post confided to him, and, before his departure, he turned his steps toward the hotel of Prince Talleyrand, in order to receive from the Machiavel of the Rue St.-Florentin his last secret instructions.

When the marshal was announced, the prince was at work in his library. When he heard the name of his visitor, his sly little face assumed an expression of malicious glee, like that which is visible on the features of a naughty child when he sees chance of tormenting a dog or a bird.

a

He hastened to change his dressing-gown of wadded brown silk for a more appropriate garb, and he then limped to the salon where the marshal awaited him. The latter was

standing, clad in the uniform of his grade. His stern, manly face framed in long, white

hair, gave him, in spite of his rather ordinary aspect, an appearance of simple, rough dig nity.

The prince opened the conversation. It was at first unimportant, as are all conversations. The marshal tried to lead the talk gradually toward politics, but then the prince instantly changed the subject. The marshal's efforts to accomplish the aim of his visit were utterly vain. The more serious he was, the more frivolous became his adversary. There was a sort of struggle between them, a struggle in which, as may be imagined, M. de Talleyrand had all the advantage. If the matshal attempted to speak of alliances to conclude, or of treaties to sign, the prince talked of the corps de ballet of the opera, or of other things of the same diplomatic importance.

"How shall I open the question with M. de Metternich?" said the marshal, at last out of patience.

"Come and see my cabinet of Chinese curiosities," answered Talleyrand, coolly. The prince had really a very fine collec tion.

Poor marshal! he was obliged to endure all the pagodas, to admire all the teapots, and go into ecstasies before all the screens. Talleyrand watched maliciously the ill-dis guised impatience of the old soldier, who si lently but heartily cursed all the lacquered waiters and mandarins past, present, and to come!

"That is all," said the prince.

"At last! Heaven be praised!" thought the marshal, and his face beamed with satis faction.

Talleyrand saw this gleam of joy, and he hastened to add:

"Ah! I think that I have forgotten the most curious thing in my collection, the right slipper of the Princess Fo-Aio, the daughter of the Emperor Ton-Kang. I forgot also the little sailing-vessel, which is an exact model in miniature of those that navigate the Yellow River."

And Talleyrand related the history of the slipper, and then entered into a long disser tation upon the progress of navigation in China. The marshal, who could no longer restrain his impatience, fidgeted nervously from one leg to the other.

"You are tired," said the prince, bringing forward a chair. "Will you not take a seat?"

At this the marshal lost all patience. "Sacrebleu!" he cried; "for more than an hour you have been telling me stories that do not concern me, and showing me toys that I despise! And whenever I try to talk of my mission you instantly beat a retreat. Do you know that I strongly suspect you, M. le Prince, of making a fool of me?"

These words were uttered still more energetically than we have written them.

"Your mission!" replied Talleyrand, calmly. "Ah! of course, my dear marshal, let us talk of it. Why did you not mention it sooner?

"How sooner? For more than an hour-"

"I did not understand. I was afraid of boring you by talking business. What I did was for your sake, for you know that busi

"Permit me to take my leave of you, M. le Prince," said the marshal, perfectly beside himself, taking up his hat and going toward the door as he spoke.

"I wish you a pleasant journey. Above all, do not forget to say 'Peccadille' to Metternich, and to say it from me."

The marshal departed in a tremendous rage, and Prince Talleyrand returned to his library, rubbing his hands gayly.

Arrived in the Austrian capital, the French envoy was extremely well received; he was loaded with all sorts of attentions, and entertainments without end were given to him, but of any interview with the minister there was not the slightest question. More than once already he had solicited an audience, and his request had always been refused under one pretext or another.

The old marshal cursed diplomacy, and loaded it with all the insulting epithets of which he had made a rich collection in the course of his military career. Driven out of all patience by these delays, he solicited an audience in such a pressing manner that it was at last accorded to him. The day was fixed as well as the hour.

"At last," thought the marshal, "I shall be able to explain myself."

At the moment he entered the minister's cabinet, Prince Metternich was in the act of crushing a dispatch between his fingers. On seeing the marshal enter, he glanced at the clock, and said:

"Marshal, I regret deeply that I am able to give you but very little time. His majesty the emperor has sent me an order which summons me to him in a few moments; I can only devote half an hour to you to-day. Another time I may be more fortunate."

"A great many things can be said in half an hour," thought the marshal.

A great many things may be said in half

66

frivolous subject to another, finally turned upon women.

"Oh," said Prince Talleyrand, "I know a marvel of beauty to whom nothing is comparable."

"I," said M. de Metternich, "know a woman who is fairer than the fairest!"

"And I," said M. de Nesselrode, the envoy of Russia, "can cite a person who certainly bas no rival!"

"There exist apparently three incomparable beauties," then said M. de Talleyrand, who had spoken first; "but I do not doubt that mine is the handsomest of the three." "No; it is mine." "No; mine."

"It is easy to see that you do not know the person of whom I speak."

"Nor you the one whom I mean."

"If you had seen mine, you would not talk so enthusiastically of the beauty of the others."

Thus commenced, the conversation gradually grew animated, and finally degenerated into a quarrel.

"We are absurd, gentlemen," said at

"Oh, then that is very different. Why did you not say so before? To-day it is impossible for me to remain with you, because, as I have already told you, the emperor is waiting for me, but to-morrow I will receive you, and we will converse long and seriously, and believe me, sir, I will do all that is in my power to aid the success of your negotiation."

The marshal remained utterly bewildered by the mysterious effect of the name he had pronounced.

That evening there was a ball at the court. M. de Metternich approached the marshal, humming, as he did so, an old opera air:

"Peccadille,

Si gentille," etc.

He seemed in high good-humor, and conversed for a long time with the French envoy. The next day the promised interview took place. Shortly afterward the marshal returned to France, having accomplished his mission in the most satisfactory manner possible.

It now only remains to us to solve this riddle, which is what we are about to do.

In 1814, three statesmen, namely, MM. de Talleyrand, de Metternich, and de Nesselrode, were met together in Paris, and were engaged in settling the grave questions which had arisen out of the fall of Napoleon and the entrance of the allied powers into France.

Those grave interests took up nearly all their time, and yet they occasionally found means to escape from the preoccupations of diplomacy, saying among each other, "Let us put off serious matters till to-morrow."

One day the three diplomats were assembled at a gay dinner. Toward the end of the repast, they dismissed the servants in order to talk more freely; and certainly no one could have recognized in the jolly comrades, saying merrily all the foolish things that were inspired by the fumes of wine, the grave men who, that very morning, had been occupied by the affairs of a part of the world.

The conversation, after roving from one i

simple means of solving the difficulty: let us bring these three mysterious beauties together."

"An excellent idea, but difficult of execution."

"Not in the least. This is opera-night; I offer you my box. Each of us will write to his goddess, and, when the three are met together there, we will arrive." "Bravo!"

Talleyrand rang, and sent for pen, ink, and paper. Each of the men wrote a note and gave it to a footman, ordering him to take a circuitous route when he left the hotel, in order to baffle the curious in case he was followed.

Another hour passed, and then the three guests set off for the opera.

Arrived at the door of the box, M. de Talleyrand motioned to M. de Metternich to enter first, who in turn went through the same ceremony with M. de Nesselrode. Each of them repeated:

"After you, sir."

"M. le Prince, I could not think of it."
At last, Prince Metternich entered.

In an arm-chair at the front of the box sat a solitary lady, but one, we must say, of the most dazzling beauty.

"What does this pleasantry mean, sir?" asked M. de Metternich, brusquely, of Prince Talleyrand, who followed him.

"I was about to ask you the same question," said, at the same time, M. de Nesselrode.

"And I was about to address it to you, gentlemen," replied Talleyrand.

"Why did you send off my note only?" "It was mine."

"You mean mine."

"Frankly, gentlemen, I do not understand the situation."

"Here is the explanation," then said the fair unknown; and, drawing from her glove three little folded papers, she presented one to each of the three statesmen.

All the notes bore the same address.

That address was "Peccadille."

When MM. de Metternich and de Nesselrode were about to leave France, they met for a last conference with Prince Talleyrand.

"We are about to separate," said the latter. "Do you not think that it would be as well to establish a means of understanding each other from afar as we do when we are together?"

"We can write."

"A letter may be lost, and that is compromising."

"We might establish a correspondence in cipher."

"That has the same drawback. There are keys to all known ciphers."

"Let us invent a new alphabet."
"That is not much more certain."
"Then what can we do?"

"Might we not, as is the custom during war, fix upon a common watchword, and accord all credit to the envoy who shall repeat to any one of us this word from one of the others?"

"Let us choose a word, then. But what shall it be?"

HA

AVING lately published an article advocating certain supplementary public instruction under the direction of the government, and that article having excited criticism in the JOURNAL, I feel it not only my right to be heard further in explanation of the principle involved in the proposition, but that it is my duty to prevent, so far as I may, the classing of certain social scientists-who are at issue with Herbert Spencer upon the question of the functions of government-with those visionary and ill-disciplined agitators who have "so little faith in the laws of things and so much faith in themselves, that they would chain earth and sun together, lest centripetal force should fail."

For myself, and many others who are pursuing the study of social science, we regard Herbert Spencer as one of the first intelligences that the world has known-if not indeed the first in all the essentials of the ideal philosopher. Those who voluntarily yield to him so grand an admiration, would

not, of course, presume to criticise any of his conclusions without a serious study of them; and it is only after such serious study and long deliberation upon his premises and conclusions, that I have come to the conviction that his deductions regarding the details of governmental function are too narrow for his definition of that function, viz., "the maintaining of men's rights." By the term rights, Mr. Spencer repeatedly declares in his "Social Statics" that he means the "general liberty to exercise the faculties." He does not believe that organizing charitable institutions, regulating commerce, the postal service, or in any way guaranteeing instruction to the people, are legitimate functions of the state. "The government by coining money," he says, diminishes men's liberty of action in the same way as by any other trade restriction in short, does wrong;" also that "a government cannot undertake postal functions without reversing its essential function." Nor would he have the government undertake the construction of public works, harbors, light-houses, etc. In this connection he says: "The imposition of taxes for other purposes than maintaining men's rights is as much forbidden by our definition of state-duty as is a system of national education, or a religious establishment."

It seems to me that Mr. Spencer's definition of the function of government applies simply to the most primitive form of political union, where tribes band together for the sole purpose of mutual protection in plundering outside tribes, and for defending their plunder from reprisal; unless, indeed, we interpret his definition more broadly than he himself interprets it. Forms of government, under the laws of evolution, develop according to the universal order of growth from simplicity to complexity. We know that the complexity of the functions of society, like those of the individual, increases in direct ratio with the development of civilization. Government is nothing more than the expression of the functions of society under a mutual compact or constitution. The maintaining of the "general liberty to exercise the faculties," is a little vague, at least to the ordinary student. Man placed on a desert island is never in a more free condition "to exercise the faculties," the only difficulty being that he cannot exercise these faculties except his environment be adapted to them.

It cannot readily be admitted that when the government—that is, society in its corporate capacity-has placed itself in a position to repel invaders and to hang or otherwise punish certain kinds of crime, it has exercised all the function that it can, in the nature of things, legitimately possess. To be sure, the wisdom, the justice the moral sentiment of the government generally cannot be greater than that of the community; "no philosopher's stone of a constitution can produce golden conduct from leaden instincts;" but in the wise choice of our public servants-if ever we become wise enough to know how to elect the most able-we shall have the necessary conditions for bringing to a focus the moral forces of the community. The result will be

a collective wisdom, a collective conscience, greater than that of the wisest and most virtuous citizen, and by which the prosperity of the commonwealth can be secured and preserved. Such a blessed consummation cannot be effected very soon. The world has yet to witness the experiment of a true de mocracy: a government in which no good citizen can be disfranchised none taxed without representation.

Until the experiment of such a govern ment is tried, and possibly some time after, we shall continue to hear on all sides this clamor of indignant protest against the inef ficiency, the mismanagement, and the corrup tion of government officials. Everywhere men act, and write, and talk, as if the people constituted one power and the government another; as if the people must wage eternal war against the encroachments of their com mon enemy-the government! This is indeed a pitiable spectacle for the philosopher. Will it require an eternity for men to realize that the shame of their republican governments is their own shame? The truth is, that the rage for wealth, for " making money" whereby to gain social supremacy, is preventing the growth of the nobler desire for national honor and prosperity. Men everywhere decry politics as something worthy only of the low, the intriguing portion of the community. Clearly, as long as the "sovereigns" of a republic are ashamed of having any thing to do with politics, they will coutinue to pay very dearly for the kind of protection which legislative sleight-of-hand af fords them.

Under such circumstances it is natural to suppose that the people will oppose any extension of the functions of government; since the assumption of new duties implies not only further taxation, but the moral certainty that the duty assumed will be badly performed, and the money wasted. The only object, then, must be to reduce the work of the gov ernment to the minimum; that of guarenteeing to the governed the "general liberty to exercise the faculties." The attitude of the victims of government seems to express: "You let us alone. Don't demand too much money for your amusements, and you are welcome to do what you like. All we want is the liberty to make money, to growl as much as we like about official corruption, and, when abroad in monarchical countries, to swagger about our glorious institu tions.'"

Seriously, it does seem that the concep tion of the function of government is in dan ger of becoming sadly demoralized. Our forefathers declared it to be, among other things, "to promote the general welfare and secure the blessings of liberty to their posterity. Now, whatever evils have beset our country, none will deny that it has been, at least, a great and prosperous country. Our institutions, or our conditions, by whatever name we may designate them, have secured wealth, education, and social culture, to a larger proportion of the population than have the conditions in any other country; and it is but fair to suppose that the wisdom and the moral sense of the fathers of our country, by the natural law of progress, were